


Things Never Meant to Be Seen

by unsettled



Series: And How it Works is This: [4]
Category: Inception (2010), RocknRolla (2008)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Moresomes, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-19
Updated: 2010-11-19
Packaged: 2017-10-13 07:10:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/134396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because the one thing he never expected to see on Johnny's face was <i>happiness</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things Never Meant to Be Seen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scrapbullet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/gifts).



He'd taken the address Cookie gave him with every expectation of winding up in another half deserted building, another room heaped with junk; this is anything but.

This is a proper house, you know? In a decent neighborhood, surrounded by normal things, and Archy has a moment of wondering what the hell kind of game Johnny is playing at.

It doesn't help that Johnny is regarding him warily over the rim of his cup, his fingers wrapped around it to tight. Archy shifts, uneasy for the first time in a long, long time.

"Why'd you track me down?"

Archy starts slightly. He'd been distracted by the weighing look the man leaning against the door frame was giving him. They'd politely and firmly ignored his hints that they could leave, give him a bit of time _alone_ with Johnny. "Your father…"

A snort, and then, brittle and sharp, "He doesn't give a fuck as long as I'm out of the way. Try again, Arch."

There's a silence that wasn't there a moment ago; Archy looks up, and the man who'd been quietly washing dishes has stopped, is staring over Johnny's head at him with a dripping plate still in one hand. He doesn't look near as dangerous as the other, but instead there's a – almost a quiet sympathy in those dark eyes.

"I haven't seen you in a long time, Johnny." He almost doesn't say it, shouldn't say it, but; "I wish you wouldn't make me worry so."

The man at the sink turns back to his work, and in the corner of his eye he can see the man in the doorway relax. Johnny drops his gaze.

Looks up, full of determination. "I'm good, Archy. I'm good."

He thinks he can see that. Maybe. "Good," he says in reply, and this is one of the most strained conversations he's ever had. "I should go, there's work to do – but," and he takes a breath. "Would you mind if I visit more often?"

There's a flaw in Johnny's expression when he looks like that, a crack just begging to be shattered. "That'd be … good," he says.

He doesn't know why he swipes the small tape on the hall table as he leaves. Maybe it's a reminder that Johnny's somewhere good now, for however long that might last. Maybe it's a tiny revenge, a tiny thought that they'll go looking for it. Maybe it's simply habit. But it's in his fingers and into his coat pocket before he can even blink.

He doesn't watch it that night, or the next, or the one after that. It's some time before he brings himself to watch it – he justifies it as reasonable caution; after all, you never know what might come from Johnny's hands.

It's slightly unsteady, very amateur, lit by sunlight and showing a room that looks faintly familiar – no doubt the ones he was in a few days ago. It zooms in on the couch, on the two bodies sprawled on it.

The taller man is lying back, half propped against the arm of the couch, focused on the TV Archy can hear faintly. Johnny's spread out on top of him, head resting on the other's chest as he watches the TV through half closed lips. The man's hand is rubbing small circles on his back. There's a grey cat curled tightly in the small of Johnny's back.

"And here," says the faintly accented voice of the man who'd opened the door to Archy, "we have a rare sighting indeed. Why, wasn't just the other day you were telling me how much cats hate you, Johnny? Or was I just hallucinating? Eames?"

Johnny doesn't even look away from the TV, just raises a hand and lazily flips the camera off. The other man – Eames – laughs. "Why are you always messing with that thing, Yusuf? You creepy voyeur, you."

"What?" Johnny asks, and pushes himself up against Eames' stomach, dislodging a disgusted cat. "I told you what I'd do the next time you whipped that bloody thing out," he says, and comes at the camera, which is shaking now as the operator laughs, fights with Johnny over it.

There's some wild panning about that ends with a thud and the close-up view of a chair leg. In the background, he hears another thump, an ' _ooof_ ' of expelled air. There's a sputtered, "Alright! You win, you win!" mixed with laughter from more than one throat. Then there's a still silence, and faintly, faintly, the soft wet sounds of someone kissing.

The camera tilts, and there's a brief shot of Eames' face, grinning and flushed, before the screen goes blank.

Arch stares at the empty blankness of the TV screen, and … maybe, he thinks. Maybe.

Maybe Johnny really is happy.

He's still stopping by next week though.

*

Next week is hardly less awkward. The darker, calmer man opens the door – Yusuf – and calls over his shoulder for Johnny as Archy comes in.

Johnny wanders out of a door down the hall, ruffled and still sleepy eyed, despite the hour, and Archy's not sure if he's more irritated at the fact that it means Johnny must have been out late, or relief that he's actually sleeping at all, rather than pushing himself further with drugs and stubborn refusal to succumb to sleep.

Yusuf makes them coffee while Johnny blinks away the sleep haze, makes it sweet and thick and Archy really wishes it was tea instead. When he sets the mug next to Johnny's hand, Yusuf cups his hand around Johnny's chin and turns his face toward him. "You ok?" he asks, and Johnny – doesn't smile, but he turns his head a fraction so when he says "I'm fine", it's into Yusuf's palm. Yusuf watches Johnny for another second before he presses his thumb against Johnny's lips, lightly, and then drops his hand, gathers his own mug and wanders to another room.

The silence is so heavy even the clock seems like it's considering giving up. Archy stares at his cup and feels like an idiot for not having words to say.

"So, Uncle Arch, been doin' anything interesting in the areas of questionable legality lately?"

"I could turn that question right back on you, Johnny," he replies, and is startled when Johnny doesn't turn sullen but laughs instead, laughs loud and bright like it's been startled out of him and he _doesn't care_ , and it's something Archy's never quite heard before.

"Oh, Uncle," he says. "You wouldn't believe how straight up I am at this moment. Unlike these two reprobates," he adds, shooting a mock glare at the door, a little louder, and from the hall comes a snort.

"I heard that, you know," and Johnny smiles into his mug, and Archy can feel his own mouth tugging upward.

He leaves the tape on the hall table.

But he snags another from the cluttered table under the phone in the kitchen.

*

"Is this thing even on?"

The picture swings around to a far too close up of someone's nose, and then it jostles wildly as the camera is snatched away, draws back to reveal Eames sitting at the kitchen table, grinning and looking like a fool with a brightly colored paper hat perched precariously on his head.

"I cannot believe how utterly incompetent you are with electronics, considering how well you handle guns, just, give me that – and don't touch those!", as Eames sticks his finger in the icing of the cake on the table.

"What?" he says, innocently, and then muffled around his finger as licks off the icing, "Never let me near a pasiv, unless you want things to go horribly wrong."

"I am well aware –" There's a noise, and they both go silent.

The camera pans to the door, and then – then there's Johnny, framed by colored streamers and balloons. Johnny, soaking wet. "What-" he starts, only to blink at them.

"What happened to you?" Eames says, and then doubles over in laughter as Johnny bristles, shakes himself like an angry cat.

"It's _raining_ ," he says, petulantly. "Buckets and buckets and _bloody buckets._ "

Eames can't even speak, he's laughing so hard, and Yusuf shoves the camera at him, with a wry "Make yourself useful," tilting the picture at an odd angle, before he walks to Johnny, who's beginning to shiver a bit. Grabs the bottom of Johnny's sodden shirt and yanks it over his head. Johnny reaches out, dazedly, and pokes the party hat on Yusuf's head. "What – were you guys – was this a birthday party? For me?"

"No," Eames says between giggles, "it was your invisible friend. Of course it's for you."

Johnny seems utterly confused, and Yusuf sighs and tangles his hands in Johnny's hair, holding his face steady as he presses their foreheads together. "Did you really think we'd forget?" and then, before Johnny can respond, "Right. To the bathroom and towels, I think, and maybe a hot shower. The cake can sit." He pulls back and tugs at Johnny. "Come on, kitten," and they disappear from the frame.

"Hey, hey, you're not taking a shower to warm up without me!" Eames calls after them, and Yusuf's reply is barely hearable.

"You know we don't all fit, Eames."

There's the sound of scrabbling, and then the screen goes black.

Archy stares at the blank screen even longer than the last time.

*

It continues, this weekly ritual. Archy goes to the normal looking house, and spends an hour, half an hour, two hours, with Johnny. Sometimes the others are there, sometimes not, sometimes it's only Yusuf, quiet and sympathetic and far too knowing, sometimes it's Eames, full of sharp words and cheeky grins and no sense of privacy. They sit and fiddle with half empty mugs, they wait out the silence, they awkwardly, awkwardly, learn to read each other a little. Learn to appreciate the other a little more. Until it's more usual for them to take a walk around the block, and if Johnny always forgets his coat, well, Archy has his to loan. Until it's usual for Johnny to tug him down to the couch if he's watching something, shove Eames or Yusuf aside, or one memorable time, both, didn't even notice how they were squashed together on either side of Archy while Johnny sprawled across all three laps and pointed out the best bits of the movie. Until the cat doesn't run from him but makes a point of scattering short grey hairs all over his clothes, and if you think grey hair won't show on grey slacks, you are wrong. Until it's usual for him to wind up staying if Johnny isn't there, to spend some time talking with Yusuf or Eames, and he's surprised to find that he likes their company well enough. That he ends up coming back each week for more than one person.

And each week, each week without fail, he switches out the tape in his pocket for one left on a table, on a shelf, anywhere – although after he finds the shelf Yusuf stores them on, it becomes much easier to switch tapes.

He sees Johnny like he's never seen him, like no one will probably ever see him, open and giddy and content, sees him laugh and curl into casual touches and play tricks, sees him playing with the cat, sees him asleep, waking, nodding off, sees him carried to bed, sees him dragging Yusuf into something rash, sees him choking on his coffee when Eames runs fingers up his back, sees him smoking slow and languid until Eames steals the cigarette from his mouth and kisses him instead, sees Yusuf, mild, collected Yusuf, push Johnny up against the wall and bite Johnny's neck, slide hands to dig at Johnny's hips, and Johnny laughs and gasps.

And he knows he sees more of the good than the bad, but that's there too, and the first time he sees a video with Johnny shouting at Eames, with Eames slamming the door behind him, with Johnny sharp and cutting and craving, when no one can stand the sound of each others voices and Archy is sure the camera has been left on by accident, wonders why Yusuf would keep these, why he wouldn't tape over or pitch them. But they're there, scattered amongst the good ones, these little slices of misery and anger and jealousy.

But above all, he sees things he isn't meant to see.

*

Like this:

Half swathed in shadows, there's a bed with more legs and arms than Archy's mind can process at first, and then Johnny pushes himself up from the tangle and the dim light fragments on his skin, breaks apart and is returned to the eye dazzled and nearly high off the contact. Johnny pants, shoulder blades standing out as his head hangs down, silhouetted alone as a blank canvas begging to be touched, until Eames rolls over and up on one elbow, curls his hand around Johnny's neck and pulls him over, off balance, to kiss at his jaw. Johnny tips over into Eames, his arms grasping at air for a moment before they both go down with an _oof_ of air, and Yusuf laughs quietly at both of them. "Oh, kitten," he says, and Johnny stretches out a hand in his direction.

Yusuf takes it and proceeds to suck on those long, lovely fingers, provoking a wonderful variety noises, noises that Eames only adds to as he trails lips and fingers down Johnny's side. Johnny looks as glazed and utterly lost as any time Archy's found him strung out, only his body conscious, mind gone dreaming on the drugs – but there's no drug here but that of being wanted, of being worshiped and touched and loved; and Archy, Archy can't help but recognize that, has had it proven again and again over the last few months, with every second of film, that the thing tying these three together is as simple as love, though there's no name or word or expression to give it that makes sense.

This, this, this he should most definitely not be watching, should turn off right now, this isn't meant for his eyes but he knows it's already too late to rid himself of the image of Johnny, oh, god, of Johnny like he's wanted him for longer than he cares to admit. Never rid himself of the knowledge, now, that that's not for him, that Johnny's found something greater, some one – more than one of them, even – to treat him as he deserves. He tells himself he's turning it off, but the video keeps playing.

Right up until the moment Johnny comes, comes keening and shaking and help together by two pairs of arms. Right up until he collapses onto them, between them, for only a moment. Only a moment, before Eames is dragging him up, arm wrapped around his waist. "Come on, love, remember what you wanted," he says, low, and Johnny whines at the movement, still too lost in the aftermath. Eames is shaky enough he can't support Johnny, as slight as he is, and Yusuf rolls and settles his shoulder into the curve of Johnny's spine, speaks softly into his skin, "Shuu, it's ok, kitten". Johnny sighs, his head falling back against Eames' shoulder; he waits a moment and as they support him, then raises his head, looks straight at the camera.

Opens his mouth. Blushes.

"Uncle – Uncle Arch." He swallows, and his voice is shaking; but Archy hardly even notices through the sudden terror flooding his mind. "I – we know, you have to know by now, what we're like, how we work, even if it makes no sense. You must know, we know you've been watching the tapes, and god, that's half the fun sometimes, knowing you'll see it. Don't be – it wasn't, wasn't a trick, wasn't –" and his hands come up; he draws a sharp breath and Eames buries his face in Johnny's shoulder while Yusuf merely settles a hand on Johnny's stomach, watching the camera with dark eyes.

"It wasn't anything like that, Arch, it's just – I think? I think maybe, maybe you – maybe you want me, that maybe you have for a while, and – and that yeah, yeah, I've –" he blushes again and ducks his head, "I've been thinking it too. And – we're, all of us, we're ok with that, wouldn't mind – would like you to come by, and just, just say it, just say if you maybe want something from me, from us, whatever you'd want –" he trails off, a hesitancy that's most unusual in Johnny.

"Please," he whispers.

Archy turns off the TV.

*

He can't sleep, he can't think, he can't settle for even seconds before he's pacing again, his thoughts so fragmented and conflicting and shouting each other down that there's no use trying to make the least sense of them. Nothing makes sense, nothing feels – no, something feels right, but he's not going to admit that, not going to think about what _that_ means. But so much more feels wrong, feels like it shouldn't be, and he still can't believe that they knew all along he was – how long had they known? Had they planned this? How long?

The rooms feel too small; he's having to turn in his pacing too often, interrupting his lines of thought, and he's never going to get anywhere between these walls. He grabs a jacket, heads for the lamp lit streets.

He's not even paying attention to where he's going, too caught up in thinking – in refusing to think – to be aware of anything more than people getting out of his way, of slick patches and the way the wind nearly knocks him over once. He's not thinking about things, so when he looks up and there's a familiar house before him, he gives in to the inevitable and knocks.

Johnny opens the door, laughing at something behind him, and he's surrounded by light and warmth and a happiness Archy thought he'd never see Johnny with, and he can't even stop to think, he can't do anything but what he does, which is wrap his arm around Johnny's arm and pull him forward, pull him in tight and cover his mouth with his own, finally, finally taste him. Taste all the things he's wanted that are wrong and sick and unacceptable and find they _aren't._

Johnny's curled fingers into his shirt, blinks at him with and expression that's still caught in stunned lust, but there's something serious in his eyes. "You know it's a package deal," he says.

Archy looks up, looks at Yusuf standing in the hall behind Johnny, looks at Eames poking his head around the door to the living room. Remembers thinking how he'd wonder if Yusuf tasted as delicious as he looked, if he ever lost that calm, if Archy would be able to tell the difference between brown and black in his eyes if he was close enough; remembers thinking that Eames' lips looked made for something sinful, that there had to be a way to wipe that smug smile from his face, that he might fight back just enough to make things sharp, and nods.

"I know," he tells Johnny. And maybe he'll find out that Yusuf's skin often tastes of something sharp and chemical, that Eames's lips are made for sliding down his cock, but that they're even better at forming obscene, mindless words when he being fucked, that Johnny has a tendency to steal shirts from whoever's left them lying about, that the cat has falling in love with his right foot and bites at it whenever he takes off his shoes – maybe these are all things he'll find out, or maybe they're not.

But right now, Johnny's pulling him inside, and the likelihood of discovering those things is very high.


End file.
